When I Am Old

When I am old, Not if, but when
Ailments will derail not end
Laments will fail not to upend
My later years which I will spend
Alone, when I am old, alone -
What is the male kind of crone?
Old lonely men dress for court on their own
Nothing suggests I will not be alone when I'm old

When I am old
There will be no more lions
Only in prisons
Product of aeons of
Bestial poems never told
Fire that does not rage is cold
Cold flames are the tongues that sing dying
There's no point in lying about being
Old men dress for the mall in the morning
Nothing suggests I will not be forlorn when I'm old

Not if, ifs and buts, but whens
I'll take a wood load at roughly ten
Measure the hours by some Bushells blend
Read the papers from start to end
Alone, when I am old, alone -
What is the male kind of crone?
I'll give the obituary special attention
Which of my neighbours has earned a mention

When I am old
There will be no more whaling
Oh you cannot go whaling
When there are no more whales
In the tepid sea
My instincts have always been dull
Not that I ever listened at all
If I lay in a burning bed
I waited for the rain to fall
Old men see what they're leaving behind
And thank small mercies for going blind

When I am old
I will have no companion
No mouser no spaniel when
All I could do is
To leave them behind
No spark to depend on my dithering lick
Sputtering sickly at candle's end
No love to address
No missives to pen
When I am old
I'll take heroin